Disclaimer: Still don't own a thing, but I sure got that swing, do wop do wop do wop…
Non-Euclidian text is taken from Wiki trawling and automated translators of spurious nature.
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Worm: Babel
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Once more, last evening, I dreamt of the labyrinth.
I have dreamt of that place since I was small.
Sepia stone beneath a starry sky, the strange and expansive place seems endless, and always seems brightly alight despite there being not a torch or lamp in sight, as though the thick clouds that sometimes blot the sky cannot hide the sun that I have never seen, as though the very stars illuminate that endless maze in an equally unending day.
Once more, I wandered the stone corridors.
When I'd first dreamt of it, I'd been enamored by the carvings that sometimes decorated dozens of meters of stone. Incredible bas-reliefs depicting strange and fantastic happenings, things that reminded me of the pictures in some of the first books my Mommy read to me: Where the Wild Things Are, The Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and too many others to think of.
And stranger still, some that held no sway with my young mind, and yet the stranger the carvings, the more I was fascinated by them. Long nights of restful sleep were whiled away by tracing the odd angles, the mysterious creatures that had no name, as I walked the labyrinth.
Left, right. Right, left. Alone I wandered.
Or have I been alone? At times, I hear whispers, as though someone is speaking to themselves, in a corridor that runs parallel to the one I walk. At first, I called out, eagerly, hoping to make another friend, someone who would aid me in finding the end of this strange and incredible place, a final destination.
But whenever I called, the voices would dim. And if I persisted with my desperate calling, I would feel the pressure of the waking world on my mind like an unforgivingly heavy stone.
And I would awaken in my bed, disappointed once more, but rested and refreshed, as though I'd not spent countless hours walking in that place most peculiar.
Alone, once more, I listened for the whispers.
When I dream of that place, I do not forget a single session; each and every step seems carved into my memories, indelible, eternal. I think it's because I want, even in my subconscious wanderings, to remember these visions, to not have the waking world steal this place from me.
Because the whispers tell me secrets, mysteries unknown, as far as I can tell, to any other member of humanity. That place, a hidden library and art gallery both, disguised as an unsolvable labyrinth…
I am not the first to walk it, I found, not long after the horror that fell upon Switzerland.
After failing multiple times to herald the whisperers beyond the wall, I decided on a different approach: when I hear the whispers, I would instead listen to them, and examine the stretch of wall they come from. Maybe they aren't on the other side of the wall, but are the walls, was my reasoning? Maybe they are the many and myriad intricate bas-reliefs and exquisite murals that decorate this recurring dream most unusual.
But the language spoken was not one I could interpret. They certainly weren't speaking English, or any of the languages I'd heard around Brockton Bay, while shopping with my Mommy and Daddy.
Nor were they in any way similar to Spanish, Italian, or German, languages I'd diligently learned in my spare time; where another child might wish to go outside and play and laugh (and I did these things, certainly, but not as often as my dear friend Emmaline), I wished to find some common ground for all languages spoken upon the Earth. We were all one people, once. Maybe that's why the Simurgh's scream drove men mad, my innocent mind mused one morning; maybe it was simply speaking too quickly for us to understand.
That thought was discarded as quickly as it came, when the feathered horror began working in concert with the other two, joining them in their scheduled genocide of my species.
I did not discard, however, the possibility that the language spoken in the labyrinth was a language lost to us, and sought it out, with what clues the towering walls of my dreaming maze gave me.
Defeated but unbowed, I turned my attention to the bas-reliefs and frescoes and mosaics; they were, all and one, unlike any of the artistic expressions I'd seen in the galleries I would visit on scholastic outings with my classmates.
Perhaps there was a clue hidden in their strange angles, in the odd posturing of beings alien and unusual to my eyes. Certainly, there were words written amidst the dancing, contorting, twisting figures, amongst the streets of cities I could barely think to name…
Yet the words eluded me, for this was a script unknown to Man. Still I copied some few passages into my dream journal, a letter here, an anecdote there, and sought for a like language in my city's libraries, both in my elementary school and the larger assemblage downtown.
To no avail.
Frustrated but still undeterred in my quest for understanding these sporadic yet vividly detailed dreams, for I always had a fascination with language, a study only exceeded by my diligence in maintaining the elegance and grace my ballet teachers always complemented me on, I desperately sought some reference, some essay or text, that spoke of this language most odd, that I hear as hushed and intimate whispers in my dreams.
To no surprise, I found nothing in the libraries.
Again to no surprise, the answer was in my dreams.
For hidden in these walls was the answer: someone, I might never know who, had apparently translated the writings upon the wall and rendered them into Greek! There they were, carved in a meticulous, careful hand, hidden near the floor, around the edges of the reliefs and murals!
The mode was ancient, but the Rosetta Stone gave me the key, and I am neither unlearned nor dim. The internet gave me a copy of the Stone upon paper, and one of my Mommy's old college textbooks gave me the English translations of that several-thousand-year-old script.
Methodically, diligently, as a spider spins its web, I set myself to work in deciphering the first such passage. Weeks it has taken, but my diligence and single-minded focus has finally born fruit!
The first passage I wished to translate was inscribed beneath a bas-relief depicting an enormous step pyramid built upon a vast and barren waste, the stars glistening bright in a dome above, intertwined with strange and fantastic beings. This is what the subtitle said, as near as I could decipher:
Kadishtu f'gof'nn, phlegeth nog ng'ooboshu, syha'n wgah'n. Throd'hai li'hee'kadishtu, Bki-Trj-Kqpx, nw nnn-nilgh'ri'nglui. Strange were these words written; they seemed to both be above and inside the image presented, but copy them I did, along with a rough sketch of the relief, as best I could, into my marbled journal.
From that other, nameless explorer who carved his Greek letters into these hard stones, I received enlightenment, as I successfully translated the words chiseled beneath that strangely undulating title:
"Reside for eternity, in the Realm of Knowledge, and know Their Children. Tremble before the Knowing, Nyarlathotep, He Who Is/Protects the Boundaries."
Fascinating…
{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}
I fling my pencil to the table and grip my hair, confused and frustrated and perplexed beyond all reason!
"But what does it mean?" I beg to the air! The name for this being, this so-called 'Bki-Trj-Kqpx'. Is this being, who apparently watches, is or protects some unknown boundary, attempting to contact me? For what reason?
I have not, as far as I can deduce, violated any boundary with my quest for a common denominator to all tongues spoken and written; indeed, both of my parents have seen this as a high and challenging goal, and have encouraged me to follow it!
No, I have violated no laws I can imagine, so why?
Perhaps the translation may be imperfect? The word for Is and Protect is similar, according to the author of the carvings, who included a footnote to this effect.
But if something Is what it Protects, mayhap there is no difference at all? What a curious conundrum this is!
The secret must be hidden in that name, Nyarlathotep… Bki-Trj-Kqpx…
An idea buds and begins to blossom upon the fertile soil of my imagination. Maybe…
Language is the medium by which we learn; through vibration in the air, from the mouths of teachers to the ears of the student, the wisdom and knowledge of the ages is passed down. It is how we learn to decipher the symbols printed on paper.
Maybe… the untranslated name… should it be spoken?
I take up my pencil, and begin attempting to scribble out my ideas as they come. If I speak this being's name, maybe I'll find out why I've been dreaming of the labyrinth more often, of late.
Not ten minutes later, I grin in self-satisfaction. "Baat'ko'ept," I whisper to the air, hoping my deducing of the phonic subtleties is correct.
For the briefest of moments, I feel the gaze of something alight on me, the ghost of a hand patting me gently on my slim shoulder, as though in congratulations.
Turning quickly in my seat, pigtails with blue-gold ribbons (I liked them, and Emmaline approved, last we met) flying about with the movement, I search my room with wide spectacled eyes of darkest green for the one who'd touched me, expecting to find my Daddy, come to rouse me from another diligent cram session.
But none are present. Only the drawings I'd made of the strange places I'd seen carved and painted in the labyrinth decorate the walls, interspersed with posters of those Parahumans who stand against the Endbringers, and of New Wave. Mom's flute (may her soul rest easy), recently tuned and polished, rests in its well-worn case next to my school bag, which is prepared for tomorrow, where I'll be off to a two-week nature retreat.
No one.
Huffing in irritation, I turn back to my journal, and the name within.
Bki-Trj-Kqpx…
'Baat'ko'ept… who are you?'
"Taylor! Dinner's ready!"
I smile and shut my journal with a sigh; progress at last, and yet, I've only been given more mysteries to solve.
Hopping to my feet, I smooth the skirts of my dress (because proper girls wear dresses, no matter the season), and call brightly back, "Coming, Daddy!" and prance and pirouette my way to the stairs.
It wouldn't do for Daddy to be depressed any longer, or at all; Mommy wouldn't like him moping. So I make sure to smile and be as happy as I can be, and do my best to fill the sharp silence, try my hardest to give Daddy hope, which might see him through the weeks I'll be away.
He smiles over dinner at my incessant antics, laughs at the jokes Emmaline and I learned and shared over the years. He's made lasagna, for the first time since Mommy died, and it is delicious.
I kiss my Daddy on the cheek once I'm done eating, leaving a saucy stain which we both laugh and rib each other about, and I make sure his lunch is ready for tomorrow once the dishes are clean.
We watch some television, a game show, and we have a contest to see who can answer the most questions before the contestants do. If we get one right, we get a caramel candy from the bowl. I win by a narrow margin.
Daddy bids me be careful while on the nature retreat, and to remember not to wear dresses while walking in the forest.
I laugh and assure him I won't and hug my Daddy goodnight.
Instead of the labyrinth, I dream of a strange city upon a strange planet, one I have beheld in fantastic fresco beneath starry sky, which I have drawn and colored and posted on my wall next to a small print of Miss Militia. Yellow skies above yellow plains and yellow mountains, bare and unforgiving in the blistering sun, but I am calmed by the chant that reverberates through the thick air. A warning and blessing and curse, all in one, and it's beautiful to my ears.
I dance and sing merrily along with the chant, "Ai nafl yaah, ngnah h'ahor nafl'fhtagn! Ah nafl ai, geb l'Carcosa, yaah ah'ehyeah!"
"Speak not the name, or He shall rise. Do not speak, here upon Carcosa, the name forbidden."
Such a beautiful language! I can't wait to see what else it can do, besides have ghosts sneak up on me!
{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}
Nyarlathotep smiled fondly, at hearing the most ancient name for It, for the first time in a blind eternity; It smiled at seeing It's mortal agent, one of the very few It had ever invested such interest and careful planning with, come past the grief of her mother's demise, at her diligent uncovering of the hints He, the Black Pharaoh, has left for her.
The Crawling Chaos smiles fondly, watching Taylor Hebert dance and sing upon the sands of Hastur's eternal prison, Carcosa, thinking of It's plan to raise Khepri up and slay The Warrior in one fell stroke…
And It waits. For the time has not yet come.
'Soon.'